


Flesh Wound

by April_Valentine



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Because this is canon-related, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Rick Grimes/Michonne, Richonne in the background, Season 7 finale, Unrequited Love, almost unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 21:37:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10544744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/pseuds/April_Valentine
Summary: In the aftermath of the battle with the Saviors and Scavengers, Alexandria tends to its wounded. Rick was shot and Daryl is worried.Canon compliant but my take on Daryl's and (to a lesser degree) Rick's feelings. I'm not tagging this as "one-sided" because that isn't what it is.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaroonCamaro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaroonCamaro/gifts).



> Wow, it's been since early January since I've posted! My muse just hasn't been cooperating but I'm trying to kick it into submission. 
> 
> This thing popped into my head after the finale -- Rick was there at Michonne's bedside, seemingly not having received any medical attention for his own gunshot wound. Although I usually just write as if Richonne doesn't exist, in this I had to leave it in there but obviously it's not center stage. I love Michonne, but I'm a slasher. Enter Daryl and his feelings for Rick.
> 
> This one is for MaroonCamaro, for her help and loving friendship.

Daryl walked into the infirmary slowly, his body exhausted from the battle but somehow, miraculously, he was uninjured. He actually felt good, which was a change after the last few awful weeks, tired in a good way, tired from fighting and winning, tired from standing up with his family and not exhausted and alone in a dark cell.

He glanced over at the bed where Rosita seemed to be resting comfortably. She’d been hit in the shoulder but she would be all right. He was glad about that though he knew, from the little he’d been told, that she would feel worse about Sasha going into the compound alone and ending up dead. 

Daryl himself felt Sasha’s death keenly. When Negan had opened that coffin and she came out biting – he had felt both crushed with disappointment yet proud of her, for once hoping a walker would manage to bite the person they were after. Knowing how Negan fucked with someone’s mind, Daryl realized right away that Sasha had taken her own way out of the situation, hoping that her death could help her family in some small way, rather than kneeling or agreeing to do what Negan wanted. It was almost funny how that leering, leaning fool had used a casket to transport her; thinking Rick’s people would be horrified had sort of backfired on the man. 

Daryl would miss Sasha. He’d miss her spirit, her skill and her smile. They’d shared several adventures together – missions as Abraham would have called them – and she would be missed in the coming war as much as her presence would be missed when there were good times again.

The real object of Daryl’s concern was farther across the room. Sitting beside Michonne’s bed was Rick, holding her hand and keeping watch. Daryl was surprised to find that Rick wasn’t in a bed of his own; probably the man had waived off any attempts to check his wounds while Michonne was still in danger. 

A lump formed in Daryl’s throat. The love Rick felt for Michonne was painted on his pale face and while he wished it wasn’t so obvious, Daryl felt no ill will toward her. In his own way, he cared deeply about Michonne too and was glad she had survived the fight with the woman who had been amongst their betrayers. 

For a second, he flashed back to when Jadis had told Michonne “I’ll have him after this, ” right before things got going and the incredulous look Michonne had cast her. Rick’s face, however, had revealed nothing. 

If Daryl had been in Michonne’s place, he’d’ve done more than just glare at the tall woman with the weird haircut. But he wasn’t. It didn’t hurt anymore. He still loved Rick with all his heart and having Rick’s friendship was enough. It had to be. Besides, Rick didn’t know. Had never known how Daryl felt. 

Later, of course, when it turned out the Scavengers had made another deal with Negan, Jadis had ended up shooting Rick and knocking him off the guard tower platform. Daryl had been too far from him to help, but he’d managed to catch a glimpse of Rick grabbing a gun and firing it so he knew he wasn’t hurt that badly. 

Or so he kept telling himself. Daryl knew all too well how a man could look fine and keep fighting, only to drop dead of blood loss before the dust could clear. The fact that he was sitting up meant Rick was probably not in immediate danger, but the pallor of his face was too worrying for Daryl to ignore.

He was just taking a step toward the far bed when Carl rushed up to him. “There you are, Daryl!” Carl looked both relieved and worried. 

“You okay?” Daryl looked him up and down, glad the boy wasn’t hurt and that Negan hadn’t killed him in front of Rick as he’d boasted. For someone so young, Carl had had his life threatened more times than aged men who’d fought wars, Daryl knew. Remembering how many times his own father had threatened to kill him during some of the worst of the beatings he’d inflicted, Daryl understood what that felt like. And like him, it hadn’t weakened Carl. It just taught him how fragile life was and that was a lesson everybody needed to learn in their world now.

Carl dipped his head. “I was pretty glad Shiva chose that moment to jump that guy,” he said, his smile a bit weak. Daryl was glad to see it nonetheless. Then Carl changed the subject, as if his own close call wasn’t worth talking about. “It’s Dad that I’m worried about.” Carl pointed across the room and Daryl nodded. 

“I was just comin’ to check on him,” he responded. 

“Good. He won’t listen to anybody else,” Carl said, leaving Daryl’s side to head toward his father. 

Daryl moved with him, his heart warmed by Carl’s words. 

They reached the bedside together. Rick didn’t seem to notice them. His face was white, hair plastered over his forehead, the sweat from battle having long dried, the only motion coming from him was the slow stroking of Michonne’s hand that he kept repeating as if in a trance. 

“Rick?” Daryl rasped out, the quaver in his own voice surprising him. He’d be embarrassed if he thought Rick was in any shape to notice.

He had to repeat the man’s name two more times, along with Carl’s worried, “Dad” before Rick seemed to notice their presence. 

Rick blinked, turning bleary eyes in their direction. “What’s wrong?” he responded finally, his voice sounding weak and listless.

Then, as if finally fully recognizing them, his eyes widened. “Carl?” There it was, that sound of concern that was stronger than any thought for himself. He let go of Michonne’s hand and reached for his son.

“I’m okay, Dad,” Carl assured. “We’re worried about you.”

“Me?” Rick’s eyes seemed to go glassy as he shook his head, waving off their attention. 

“The kid’s right,” Daryl said. “You got shot. Has it been looked at?”

“Daryl?” Rick’s eyes refocused then, roving over Daryl’s frame as if to make sure Daryl was all in one piece. 

“I’m fine, too,” Daryl said, humoring him. “It’s you that needs help.” He quickly looked around, trying to figure out who was in charge, who was doing the medical stuff now. There was no actual doctor since the one from Hilltop had been taken to Negan but there must be someone…

“Maggie,” Daryl called the moment he saw her. Though she should probably be resting too, it wasn’t too surprising to see she was in charge. 

She hurried over, alerted to the concern evident in Daryl’s tone. She leaned over the bed, putting her hand on Michonne’s forehead. “She’s just sleeping. We gave her some pain medication and it’s helping her rest.”

“Rick was shot,” Daryl said abruptly. 

“What?” Maggie straightened and looked toward Rick at once.

“Yeah, and he wouldn’t let anybody do anything,” Carl chimed in. 

“I thought that blood on his shirt was Michonne’s,” Maggie told them. She moved to the other side of the bed, touching Rick’s shoulder. 

He pulled away, turning his attention back to Michonne, taking hold of her limp hand once again. Daryl felt him shutting them out like a physical blow to his gut. 

“Rick Grimes, you need to let us check you out,” Maggie said, full of her stern authority.

Yet watching Rick as he was, Daryl could see her words had no effect on him. It was up to him, then. Carl was right, Rick wouldn’t listen to anyone else. Not now.

Daryl stood up, moving closer to his friend. He leaned over, lips coming close to Rick’s ear. “Rick,” he said then, voice soft with compulsion, memories of all the times he’d been able to pull the man back from the brink by just saying his name that way. Daryl liked to think that all his feelings went into just that four letter word, all his belief in the man to do the right thing, all his exhortations, all their shared experiences, and all his devotion too. It had never failed to reach Rick when nothing else could.

And it didn’t fail him now.

Rick took a deep breath, looking up at Daryl, meeting his eyes, his gaze full of confusion, indecision.

“Time to let us take care of you, man,” Daryl said gently. He reached to take hold of Rick’s shoulders, relieved when he wasn’t shrugged off the way Maggie had been.

“But…” Rick murmured, his gaze drawn back to the sleeping Michonne. 

Carl stepped in then, taking her hand out of Rick’s loose grip. “I’ll sit with her, Dad. She’ll be okay.”

Rick’s trance seemed to be fully broken now; he nodded at Carl and let Daryl and Maggie lead him into a side room where Daryl knew they kept the medical supplies.

There was a cot in there too and Daryl helped Rick to sit and then stretch out on it while Maggie started pulling out drawers in search of what they’d need. Since she was busy, he figured he’d have to be the one to deal with Rick’s shirt. It was soaked with blood, down at the level of his belt. Daryl’s fingers trembled only a little as he hastily undid the buttons. He wasn’t used to touching Rick so intimately – heck, he barely touched him at all. The last time they’d touched it had been when Dwight had been revealed to be their prisoner and Daryl had reacted like a lit bomb, ready to kill that scrawny son of a bitch then and there, only Rick’s firm hand against his chest stopping him, holding steady as long as needed to get Daryl to take a breath and slow his roll at least a little. That touch had been the equivalent of Daryl’s use of Rick’s name – so many times… when Daryl had been nothing but a feral wildcat just out of the woods who’d lost his brother, when he’d tried to beat Spencer… But when Daryl had his knife an inch from Dwight’s eye though, Rick hadn’t touched him at all, tacitly accepting Daryl’s decision whatever it might be. 

And before that, there had been their hug after Daryl’s escape from Negan’s headquarters. 

That moment was seared into his brain, his whole body warming whenever he thought about it. How Rick had pulled him in, allowing Daryl his small break down, giving him all the comfort he so desperately needed. Those strong arms around him, fingers combing through Daryl’s hair, heart beating in time with his own…

Daryl shook his head, trying not to let the memory distract him now. He’d gotten Rick’s buttons undone and was spreading the shirt open, torn between needing to see the nature of the wound yet terrified it would be worse than they thought.

Maggie was at his side, taking the damp fabric from Daryl’s trembling fingers then, gauze ready, as she pushed a bottle of fluid into his hand. She bent closer than Daryl dared, tugging a little to get the material free where the dried blood had glued it to Rick’s skin.

“Drizzle some of that saline over it,” she told him. Daryl complied, watching as Maggie efficiently dabbed at the wetness, enabling her to pull the shirt away from the hole in Rick’s side.

Once she had gotten the shirt out of the way, she took the saline bottle from Daryl’s hand and continued pouring and wiping to clean the area. Daryl spared a glance up at Rick’s face, finding him staring at the ceiling, stoically accepting their ministrations, not even flinching as his no-doubt painful wound was touched.

“Daryl,” Maggie said, “can you… help me turn him onto his good side?”

Wordlessly, Daryl did so, using his strength to shift Rick’s lax body so he didn’t have to expend the energy. When he was re-positioned, Maggie tugged his shirt further out of the way and cleaned his back.

“Looks like the bullet went through clean,” she said after a moment, much to Daryl’s relief. He’d been fearing it was in Rick still, having torn up his insides, damaging vital organs… “Just a flesh wound,” she pronounced, getting back up to throw away the bloody gauze and gather some more bandages.

“You hear that, Rick?” Daryl asked him. “Just like the Lone Ranger.”

Rick’s eyes, so blue and clear now, focused on Daryl’s face. “I ain’t the Lone Ranger,” he muttered. His hand slid down, seeking to connect with Daryl’s. “Got you by my side,” he said, the words soft but perfectly coherent.

Much as he loved hearing those words, Daryl knew there was one meaning to “by Rick’s side” that he fit and another that he didn’t. Rather than give in to the pining he felt for the man, he joked, “Well, I ain’t no Tonto.” He did let Rick’s fingers twine through his own, not being strong enough to ignore the gesture. 

He met Maggie’s eyes as she continued bandaging Rick’s side, hoping to find some way to anchor himself in the sea of feelings suddenly overwhelming him.

“Don’t look at me. I’m not Silver,” she joked. Rick sighed a feeble laugh and Daryl couldn’t help grinning either. Tension eased, he squeezed Rick’s hand again.

“I’m going to give you some antibiotic,” Maggie announced and Daryl looked over in time to see her with a syringe. That time Rick did flinch, gripping Daryl’s fingers tighter as he felt it go in.

“Your dad teach you that?” Rick asked in a shaky voice as she withdrew the needle.

“I never watched him as much as Beth did,” she admitted, adding, “but Dr. Carson’s been teaching me a little, up at Hilltop. Good thing too, since Negan’s men took him to his place now.”

“Bastard,” Daryl muttered, his anger still fresh over that. He felt Rick’s fingers clench on his in response. They were on the same wavelength again and it felt so right.

Maggie produced needle and thread and began stitching Rick’s wounds. Rick tried to hold still, but Daryl could see the pain was getting to him. He was exhausted, worried about Michonne and at his limit. Daryl patted his arm, trying to soothe him as best he could. He picked up a piece of toweling from a nearby table and wiped Rick’s brow, then dabbed it over his trembling, sweaty belly. He hated seeing Rick in pain and wished there was more he could do for him. 

Rick was alive, Daryl kept telling himself. That was the most important thing. 

“Here, Daryl,” Maggie said, handing him some bandages, “help me with this.”

Daryl nodded and together they covered the stitched bullet wounds. Daryl flashed back to Hershel stitching him up after his fall into the ravine had left one of his own bolts in his side. “We’re going through antibiotics faster than I expected,” the older man had groused, and Daryl realized how little had changed since those days in that regard. Of course, they’d come a long way from their only injuries coming from walkers and clumsy accidents. 

“There, all done,” Maggie pronounced. “You get some rest now, Rick.” Maggie put the used supplies on the table beside the cot and then brusquely left the room, obviously knowing she was needed elsewhere.

Daryl wasn’t surprised when Rick started to struggle into a sitting position. “She said rest, Rick,” he told him, taking hold of his shoulders in an effort to get him back down on the cot. “Carl’s with Michonne,” he said, trying to make his voice soothing. “You can stand down.”

Rick closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at Daryl again. The caring in the depths of those blues was almost too much to handle. The trust and need was pouring off the other man, and Daryl felt his existence spiral down to center completely on Rick – not that it was ever very distant in the first place. 

The door to the room opened and someone Daryl didn’t know by name bustled in, grabbing some supplies and then leaving again. He realized Rick would never be able to rest here. There was also the sound of conversation outside the door that was bound to distract him. 

“You wanta go home?” Daryl asked. “It’ll be quieter.”

Rick rubbed a hand over his face, looking extremely weary. “No. I hate to leave if… something happens.”

Daryl looked around the room, trying to think about the layout of the building. There was another door across from them; he couldn’t remember where it led but it was worth checking out. 

“Sit tight,” he told Rick, leaving him momentarily to cross the room and open the other door.

Inside, the room beyond was gloomy due to its closed blinds. Along with assorted file cabinets and a desk, there was a comfortable looking couch in it. Daryl figured with both doors closed, the noise from the main room wouldn’t disturb Rick and yet he’d be close enough if he had to check on Michonne or if anyone needed him. Daryl hoped that didn’t occur however. Rick could use a couple of hours of solid sleep.

He turned back to the treatment area and helped Rick get to his feet. Grimacing, Rick threw an arm across Daryl’s shoulders as they began walking. 

“Stitches feel tight,” he remarked, placing a hand carefully over the bandage on his side. 

“I remember,” Daryl told him.

Rick looked at him, his eyes soft and sweet with memory. “Oh yeah… you had to get some right in the same spot. Sure seems like a long time ago.”

Daryl’s throat felt too tight to speak, so he just nodded. 

Rick sighed, his fingers clenching on Daryl’s shoulder. “You know, now that Glenn’s gone, it’s only you, Carol, Carl and me from the Atlanta group left.”

“We shouldn’t think about it,” Daryl told him – knowing he usually didn’t take his own advice. He thought about Sophia still, about Beth and Hershel… about Denise and… Glenn was never far from his thoughts. 

He didn’t say anything, but Rick must have noticed the change in Daryl’s breathing. He stopped walking and turned to pull Daryl against him. “It wasn’t your fault. Maggie doesn’t blame you.”

“I… I know. She talked to me,” Daryl managed to grate out, his voice thick with unshed tears. 

“Daryl,” Rick went on, “ _I_ don’t blame you.” His hand swept up Daryl’s back and into his hair, fingers tightening in the tangled strands the way they had when they’d first seen each other again at Hilltop. Daryl hadn’t realized how much he’d needed to hear those words until Rick uttered them, his voice so deep and sincere that Daryl had to believe. He had let Rick down, let them all down on that horrible night, and he had paid for his mistake every hour he’d spent in that dark, cold cell, naked and alone with that fucking song playing that mocked their very existence. Rick’s absolution meant nearly as much as Maggie’s – and in some ways even more. He wanted Rick to know he could still count on him. He wanted to be at Rick’s right hand always, useful, needed, trusted. 

“Missed you so much,” Rick went on, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. “Worried about you all that time…”

Daryl knew he’d start blubbering if Rick kept this up and he knew the man was only making those heartfelt declarations because of his own injuries and fatigue. “M’okay,” he said, trying to brush off the emotions, to give Rick one less thing to worry about. “It’s you that needs to get some rest now.” Reluctantly, he pulled out of Rick’s embrace and got them moving again.

Neither of them spoke as they crossed through to the other room. Daryl closed the door behind them, the room growing darker, quieter. “See? Nice couch in here.”

Rick looked at him, a wan smile on his tired face. “Looks good,” he agreed, heading toward it. Mid-way there, he paused, pointing across to a shelf unit behind the desk. “Looks like we have all the comforts,” he said, nodding in the direction of the whiskey bottle. 

Daryl agreed. Rick was exhausted but keyed up and a drink would probably help him relax. He could use one himself too. He nudged Rick in the direction of the couch and moved to get the bottle for them to share.

He didn’t see any glasses and didn’t feel like hunting for any, so he walked back to the couch and placed the bottle on the side table. Rick was trying to shrug out of his bloody shirt but not getting very far. 

“Let me get that,” Daryl told him, knowing how hard it was to twist around with stitches in your side. He carefully pulled the shirt off for Rick, fingers trembling only a little, dropping it on the floor next to the side table.

Rick held his side as he sat down in the middle of the couch. Daryl found a place to his right, picking up the whiskey and dusting it off a bit with his free hand before unscrewing the top. He handed it to Rick first. 

Their fingers brushed as Rick took the bottle. Daryl was used to ignoring the little shivers that sort of contact with Rick caused. He’d been feeling it since Atlanta, he remembered, more at the farm, and then even more at the prison. It had taken him ages to figure out what it was, what it meant.

Daryl hadn’t come from an affectionate family, hadn’t known any love except the tough brand Merle showed him, had never had close friends or relationships. Being accepted into Rick’s group had given him his first taste of belonging, of being needed and cared for and he’d spent months trying to deal with the uncomfortable newness of it all. Carol’s open and honest approach had embarrassed him and Beth’s innocent yet deep caring had touched him but left him uninterested nonetheless. He’d known long before the dead started walking that sex wasn’t really for him and he was okay with that. He’d once told Rick, in the early days on the farm, that he was better on his own and in some ways that was still true. He did feel things deeply, but expressing those feelings – of friendship, affection or love – remained a mystery. As a kid, any time he’d opened up, shown any vulnerability, he’d been beaten bloody for it. He’d learned to hide his feelings, and convinced himself he didn’t have needs like other people.

Rick had put his lips to the mouth of the bottle, leaning back slightly as he took a long pull from it. He closed his eyes as he swallowed, shaking his head as the liquor hit him. “Better not have too much of that,” he said, clearing his throat a moment later. “It’s smooth but we’re not used to it.” 

Daryl nodded in agreement, taking the bottle when Rick passed it to him and chugging down a healthy mouthful. The whiskey burned on its way down his throat but it felt good. He remembered nights at the prison when he and Rick had shared guard duty, passing a bottle back and forth that they’d found on a run. It had felt so good just to sit beside him, to talk about the garden Rick was working on or how Asskicker had spit up on Daryl’s last clean – well, sort of clean -- shirt. 

He’d loved Rick then, Daryl knew now, though it was months later on the road when he offered his own life to Joe and his men when they were threatening Rick, Carl and Michonne that Daryl had finally been able to put a name to the feelings. All those weeks without him after the prison fell, he’d been hurting so bad out there alone with Beth, telling her that she’d never see the others again, grating out Rick’s name as if it were torn from his soul, he’d really been telling himself. And then he’d seen him again, held at gunpoint, knowing the men he’d so briefly stayed with wouldn’t stop until all three of his family members were dead, and Daryl too. 

The next morning, as he confessed his brief alliance with them to Rick, trying to comfort the man for his brutality in biting out Joe’s throat, Rick had looked at him and called him his brother. 

Daryl hadn’t been able to speak. That word felt like more to him than any expression of love he could ever hope to hear. He wouldn’t know what to do with more from Rick so he’d contented himself with just that – being Rick’s brother made his life feel whole for the first time, complete. If he felt a little tingle in his gut when their hands touched, when Rick looked deep into his eyes as if Daryl’s counsel held all the answers, that was okay.

They passed the bottle back and forth a couple more times, sipping quietly, both lost in thought.

“Good, isn’t it?” Rick asked him, referring to the whiskey.

“Yeah, pretty good,” Daryl agreed, meaning being able to sit this close to him, safe for the moment. Reluctantly, he put the lid back on the bottle, setting it aside on the table to his right. 

“I am tired,” Rick admitted then, rubbing a hand over his face. He leaned his head back to rest against the back of the couch.

“Don’t do that,” Daryl told him, almost scolding. “You’ll get a crick in your neck. Stretch out.” He moved to get up so Rick would have room. 

“Don’t leave.” Rick slurred, grabbing at Daryl’s waist to hold him down, even as he slid closer. Before Daryl knew what was happening, Rick had stretched out on his good side, pulling up his long legs and resting his head in Daryl’s lap. “No pillow,” he mumbled by way of explanation. 

“Rick…” The name slipped out helplessly. Daryl was both embarrassed and utterly touched by the trust Rick placed in him. In his most secret dreams, he sometimes thought about being close with Rick, touching him freely… but Daryl didn’t know how to bare himself that way. He wasn’t what Rick needed or wanted and it was okay because that way Daryl knew nothing would ever go wrong between them the way it did between some people – there could never be the hurt of rejection, or the pain of changed feelings, they would feel no inadequacy, no regrets.

Yet as Rick settled against him, rubbing his cheek against Daryl’s thigh, as familiar as if they really were old lovers, Daryl closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pretended they were.

He reopened his eyes then, unwilling to miss the sight of Rick, bare to the waist, resting against him, shoulders tan from the sun, chest smooth and defined, hands scarred from countless battles. Daryl, emboldened, lifted his hand and carefully let it rest on Rick’s smooth shoulder, as gentle as he touched Judith when he cradled her to sleep. 

Rick made an “mmmnnn” sound, seeming to cuddle closer, so Daryl let his hand start sliding up and down Rick’s back, stroking him soothingly, wanting to ease the pain that the whiskey had only just covered, needing to show how much he cared in this simple way at last. 

Rick heaved a deep sigh, turning his head to look up at Daryl. His hair was still sticking to his forehead and Daryl couldn’t stop himself from smoothing it back, combing through the curls he had looked at so many days and so many nights, wondering how it would feel to run his fingers through them. 

It felt good. They seemed to twist around his fingers, trying to keep them there. So smooth, so silky. 

Rick smiled at him, catching Daryl’s hand in his own. He pulled it down, eyes looking over Daryl’s grimy fingers, scarred like his own. “So gentle,” he murmured, as if talking to himself. 

And then Rick did the most amazing thing. He brought Daryl’s fingers to his lips and kissed them. 

Daryl gasped, unable to prevent the sound of his shock from escaping. 

Still smiling, Rick let go of his hand and reached to wrap his own around the back of Daryl’s neck. Before Daryl could even think what was happening, Rick had pulled him down and kissed his lips.

It was brief. It was magical. It was a soft brush of warmth and moisture that Daryl would never forget. It was confusing. Upsetting. Terrifying. Welcome as a thunderstorm after days of drought, silence after gunfire. 

Maybe he’d dreamed it. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe Rick was drunk and confused. Daryl knew he himself was.

Daryl opened his mouth to speak but Rick’s fingers against his lips stopped his words. “Shhh… I’m sorry. I just… wanted you to know,” he said, words as soft as the evening breeze. “I know you love me,” Rick went on, making Daryl’s heart begin to hammer, his head to spin. “I love you too.”

“What…?” Daryl managed to gasp. Where had he gone wrong? How had he slipped up? He’d never wanted Rick to know. And had Rick said he loved Daryl too?

Rick just looked up at him with those wise, patient eyes of his and continued. “I know you don’t know how to show me. I didn’t know how I felt about you for a long time either. Or what to do about it because I know… I know it’s just not your thing.” He cupped Daryl’s cheek gently at those words, inexpressible sadness in his eyes, then Rick went on, “I just don’t want you to hurt about it. Because I do love you too, Daryl.” Rick’s eyes fluttered then, as if the battle, the gunshot, the pain and the whiskey had finally caught up to him. “We’ll talk later, okay…?”

And with that, Rick dropped off to sleep, his head heavy in Daryl’s lap, his kiss still warming Daryl’s lips.

Daryl continued to sit there with Rick as he slept, slowly stroking through his curls, over his bare back and shoulders. He couldn’t think, he felt like he’d been shot, taken his own arrow right through his heart this time. 

Rick had only suffered a flesh wound. Daryl’s went deeper, but in the end, he figured his own wound might be healing him instead of tearing him apart.

**Author's Note:**

> I have been slogging away on my next chapter of "All the Things" and am finally about half way through it. I have not abandoned that WIP and it's all plotted out. The spirit has been willing, but the muse is weak.


End file.
